Christmas used to feel real. Which is ironic coming from a family whose Christmas lacked all the fundamental aspects rooted in its tradition. The version of Christmas I knew was nothing short of an improvisation of my two immigrant parents, who learned English in conversation, culture by assimilation. The tree itself was artificial, with cross sections that unfurled like mechanical limbs, whose buoyant stems resembled taxidermy. And yet, when I think back to this time I am filled with nothing but warmth. I remember the hours spent glossing over the same TV specials that played the previous year, and yet still finding solidarity in their return. I remember Drake and Josh creating a front yard of fake snow in order to avoid going back to prison; I remember Timmy Turner wishing what it’d be like if it was Christmas every day. And oh, how I slept! The only thoughts that would consume me were of falling asleep in time so I didn’t spoil Santa’s arrival. To be burdened once again with the thought of whether Santa will bring me Pokémon Diamond or Pearl the following morning. To wake up, excited, and my only job to drag my Dad out of bed. Tonight is Christmas Eve, and this year there is no tree. Not even a fake one, and not even the miniature one, that stands no greater than two feet tall, which I have substituted during my last few years after we moved. There are no more TV Christmas specials that I warmly embrace. Instead, it’s video essays about “how bad the economy is” and “how subscription-based services remove the freedom of ownership”. Charts with lines that go up and down, that seemingly have as much pattern as the accidental scribbles of an impulsive kid with a crayon. These peaks and troughs signal impending doom, or unrequited success. These days, sleeping is a concentrated effort. Whether or not Santa is coming the next day, I go to sleep every night thinking about the morning. I fall asleep wondering how well rested I hope to be, as to not waste another potentially productive day. I start unwinding for bed early, book in hand, and wake up just on time, but never feeling fully recovered. My Dad isn’t around anymore to pretend to be Santa, or around for me to knock on his door in time to open the presents for that matter. On Christmas Day, I dread that the only person I have to motivate out of bed is myself. Christmas used to be a sweet time. One of those few days a year where I am protected by warmth, TV specials, and family. I remember how complete the world felt when I opened my very first DSi and had my very own personal camera for the first time. On Christmas Day, I worry I’ll feel I have nothing to photograph, and instead watch the day unfold before me.

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Today we planted the flag: Mongo wired, slugs working, pipeline stable.

I remember attending an orchestra concert in elementary school. There was a young violin soloist, a girl, dressed in all black. Other key details—I can’t recall. I don’t remember the piece she played as being technically impressive, and I don’t remember being particularly drawn to the melody itself. What I do remember vividly: the way she moved. The way she embedded herself throughout the piece, with the violin and her shape becoming indistinguishable. The rhythm of the piece synchronized with her very breaths. She wasn’t just singing and dancing—she was arguing, clear and articulate. The strokes of the bow were loud and clear, yet full of control and restraint. She had mastered the syntax of her weapon. Unlike instruments such as the piano, the violin is incredibly punishing, translating even the slightest hesitation or stutter into sound. As a budding violinist, I remember being struck by the difference in the way we played. While I felt I lacked confidence, even within the enclosure of an orchestra, there she was, commanding attention all by herself. What still fascinates me today is that despite the risks of exposure, people find ways to flourish in it. I had my own experience in performance a little later. I was also a piano student, and my teacher would occasionally host recitals. This gave all her students an opportunity to showcase their skills in succession, with their parents in the audience. I was quite the defiant kid, and I lacked the internal discipline that allowed me to value consistent practice. Unsurprisingly, when it came to show day, I floundered. As if my piece being the same as my predecessors wasn’t enough, I opted to play a truncated version of Für Elise due to my unreliability at the time in learning the whole piece. I rushed through the whole performance, playing at a tempo noticeably faster than the previous student, which yielded side comments from other parents that I had overheard, exclaiming “wasn’t that too fast?” Looking back, this must have been one of my earliest encounters with embarrassment. My parents never gave me grief for it, but as an adult, I can only imagine what they felt. Did they feel shame? Disappointment? Or pity? However, humans are not turtles. Our shells do not harden in hiding, and our hands form calluses through work. Yet, in a digital age, my social media has become more like a shield than a stage. Over the years, my profiles have been curated for wide acceptance. My Instagram is the perfect grid summary of my most iconic moments; my dating apps only allow for the most flattering of angles. While I originally catered to a broader audience, I have inadvertently rejected my own authenticity. Now I struggle to post even the most inconsequential thoughts on my story. I find myself hesitant to repost reels about socioeconomic issues because I am afraid to be divisive. I second-guess quick rants about drivers in the DMV, worried that I might come off unhinged. I forbid myself from arguing that Swimming by Mac Miller is the culmination of his artistry, worrying I might come across as overbearing. The same rows and columns I have used to redirect assumptions have become the bars of my own cage. These days, the art of performance seems to have lost some of its meaning. I see the term “performative” loosely applied from men posting blueberry matcha lattes (my personal favorite) to influencers participating in streetside philanthropy via mystery gifts. Unlike the violinist from my distant memory, these performances are constantly recycled on my feed until the moment I put my phone down and abandon the thought of them completely. Yet the violinist from my past still lingers. Despite the risks of performance I experienced through my own musical background, the violinist continues to sing. Sperm whales repeatedly travel between worlds for food, holding their breath as they drift from the surface down to levels where the water pressure crushes metal hulls. Even after the harshest winters, perennials find the will to bloom again in the spring. Nature holds some of the most captivating performances, not because anybody is watching, but because it just is—because what makes a performance truly undeniable is one that continues to exist, even in the absence of its audience.